The Third Reich

SEPTEMBER 6

I don’t know whether the Wolf has lost his job or the Lamb has, or both of them have. They grumble and complain but I hardly hear them. I do, however, register their low-frequency fear and rage. The owner of the Andalusia Lodge makes merciless fun of them and their misfortunes. He calls them “bums,” “dirty bastards,” “AIDS scum,” “beach faggots,” “deadbeats”; then he takes me aside, laughing, and tells me a story that I can’t follow but that’s about a rape in which they’re somehow implicated. Showing no curiosity whatsoever— though the owner is talking loud enough for everyone to hear—the Wolf and the Lamb are mesmerized by some TV sports show. This is the generation of kids that were going to put their shoulder to the wheel! This troop of zombies was going to bring glory to Spain, I shit on the Holy Virgin! the owner ends his speech. There’s nothing left for me to do but nod and return to the table with the Spaniards and order another beer. Later, through the half-open bathroom door, I see the Lamb pulling down his pants.

After I ate I headed to the Costa Brava. I was received by Mr. Pere as if it had been years since our last meeting. Our conversation—trivial—this time took place at the hotel bar, where I got to know more than a few of the manager’s circle of friends. They all radiated an air of distinction and boredom, and, naturally, they were all over forty; when I was introduced to them, they treated me with great tact. It was as if they had been presented with a celebrity or, rather, a young man of promise. Clearly Mr. Pere and I were charmed by each other.

Later, at Navy Headquarters (my visits to the Costa Brava inevitably lead there), I was told there was no news about Charly. Not intending to cause trouble, I decided to venture some suppositions. Wasn’t it strange that his body hadn’t turned up yet? Was it possible that he was still alive, suffering from amnesia and wandering around some town on the coast? I think even the two bored secretaries gave me looks of pity.

I took a leisurely walk back to the Del Mar and was able to confirm what I’d already sensed: the town is beginning to empty, there are fewer and fewer tourists, the natives’ movements are infused with a cyclical weariness. And yet the air and the sky and the sea shine clear and pure. Breathing is a delight. And anyone out for a stroll can stand and stare at whatever catches his eye without the risk of being shoved or mistaken for a drunk.

When the owner of the Andalusia Lodge disappeared into the back, I brought up the subject of the rape.

The Wolf and the Lamb guffawed and said it was all in the old man’s head. I got the sense that they were making fun of me.

When I left I paid only for what I’d had to drink. The Spaniards’ faces turned stony. Significantly, our good-byes made reference to the date of my departure. (It’s as if everyone is eager for me to leave.) At the last minute, they tried to patch things up by offering to go with me to Navy Headquarters, but I refused.

Summer 1940. The match has heated up. Against expectations, El Quemado was able to transfer enough troops to the Mediterranean to cushion against my strikes. Even more important: he guessed that it wasn’t Alexandria but Malta that was under threat, and he fortified the island with infantry, air, and naval forces. On the Western front the situation remains unchanged (after the conquest of France a turn is necessary for the Western armies to regroup and receive replacements and reinforcements); my troops there have trained their sights on En gland— the invasion of which would demand a considerable logistical effort, but El Quemado doesn’t know that—and on Spain, an unnecessary conquest but one that clears the way to Gibraltar, without which English control of the Mediterranean is almost nonexistent. (This play, recommended by Terry Butcher in The General, involves moving the Italian fleet into the Atlantic.) In any case, El Quemado doesn’t expect an attack on Gibraltar by land; on the contrary, my movements in the East and the Balkans (after the classic play: the obliteration of Yugoslavia and Greece) make him fear an impending invasion of the Soviet Union— I think my friend sympathizes with the Reds— and neglect other fronts. My position, needless to say, is enviable. Operation Black Beard, perhaps with a Turkish strategic variant, promises to be exciting. El Quemado’s spirits never flag. He isn’t a brilliant player or an impulsive one: his movements are calm and methodical. The hours have gone by in silence; we’ve spoken only when strictly necessary, questions about the rules receiving clear and honest answers, our play unfolding in enviable harmony. I’m writing this as El Quemado takes his turn. It’s interesting: the game relaxes him, I see it in the muscles of his arms and chest, as if at last he’s able to look at himself and not see anything. Or as if he sees only the tortured Europe of the game board and the grand maneuvers and countermaneuvers.

The session took place as if in a fog. On our way out of the room, in the hallway, we ran into a maid who upon seeing us stifled a scream and went running. I glanced at El Quemado, unable to say a thing; embarrassment for him stung me until we got on the elevator. Then I thought that perhaps it wasn’t El Quemado’s face that had given the maid a fright. My sense that I was treading on uncertain ground grew sharper.

We parted on the hotel terrace. A quick handshake, a smile, and finally El Quemado disappeared, ambling offalong the Paseo Marítimo.

The terrace was empty. In the restaurant, which was livelier, I spotted Frau Else. She was sitting at a table near the bar with two men in suits and ties. I was struck by the idea that one of them was her husband, though he looked nothing like the way I remembered him. Their conversation had every appearance of being a business meeting and I didn’t want to intrude. Nor did I want to seem timid, and with that in mind I went up to the bar and ordered a beer. The waiter took more than five minutes to bring it to me. He wasn’t slow because the bar was so busy, since it was hardly busy at all; he just chose to dawdle until I had run out of patience. Only then did he bring the beer, and I could sense the defiance and hostility in his attitude, as if he were waiting for the slightest complaint from me to start a fight. But that was unthinkable with Frau Else right there, so I tossed a few coins on the bar and waited. No reaction. The miserable waiter shrank against the shelves of bottles and stared at the floor. He seemed to be angry at the whole world, starting with himself.

I drank my beer in peace. Frau Else, regrettably, continued to be immersed in conversation with her tablemates and she chose to pretend she didn’t see me. I supposed she had her reasons, and I decided to leave.

In the room I was surprised by the smell of tobacco and stale air. The lamp had been left on, and for an instant I thought that Ingeborg had come back. But the smell, in an almost tangible way, ruled out the possibility of a woman. (Strange: I had never stopped to think about smells.) All of this depressed me, and I resolved to go for a drive.

I circled slowly through the empty streets of the town. A warm breeze swept the sidewalks, scattering paper wrappings and advertising leaflets.

Only every so often did the figures of drunk tourists emerge from the shadows, stumbling blindly toward their hotels.

I don’t know what made me stop on the Paseo Marítimo. But I did, and inevitably I found myself on the dark beach, heading toward the abode of El Quemado.

What did I expect to find there?

The voices stopped me by the time I could see the fortress of pedal boats rising from the sand.

El Quemado had visitors.

With extreme caution, almost crawling, I approached; whoever was there preferred to talk outside. Soon I could make out two shapes: El Quemado and his guest were sitting in the sand with their backs to me, gazing out to sea.

It was the other man who was leading the conversation: a quick series of grunts of which I could catch only stray words like “necessity” and “courage.”

I didn’t dare go any closer.

Then, after a long silence, the wind stopped blowing and a kind of weight of warm stone fell over the beach.

Someone—which of the two I don’t know—was talking in a vague and lighthearted way about some “bet,” something “forgotten and done with.” Then he laughed… Then he got up and walked toward the water’s edge… Then he turned around and said something I couldn’t hear.

For an instant—a mad instant that made my hair stand on end—I thought it was Charly: his profile, his way of letting his head slump as if he had a broken neck, his sudden silences. Good old Charly, escaped from the dirty waters of the Mediterranean in order to… give sibylline advice to El Quemado. A kind of stiffness migrated from my arms to the rest of my body as my sense of logic fought to regain control. All I wanted was to get out of there. Then, as if the rest of the conversation was simply reinforcing the madness, I heard the kind of advice that El Quemado’s visitor was giving him. “How to stop the strikes?” “Don’t worry about the strikes; worry about breaks in the line.” “How to avoid them?” “Reinforce the front line; annihilate any advances of the armored units; always keep an operative reserve.”

Advice on how to beat me in Third Reich!

More concretely, El Quemado was receiving instructions on how to counter what he saw as imminent: the invasion of Russia!

I closed my eyes and tried to pray. I couldn’t. I thought that I’d never get the madness out of my head. I was sweating and the sand stuck to my face. My whole body itched and I was afraid (if I can call it that) that suddenly I’d see Charly’s shining face looming above me. The filthy traitor. The thought jolted my eyes open; there was no one next to the pedal boat shack. They must both be inside, I thought. I was wrong: the shadowy figures were still standing at the water’s edge with the waves licking their ankles. They had their backs to me. In the sky the clouds parted for a moment and the moon shone weakly. El Quemado and his visitor were talking now—as if it were the most pleasant of subjects—about a rape. With some effort I rose to my knees and grew a little calmer. It wasn’t Charly, I told myself a few times. Elementary: El Quemado and his visitor were speaking in Spanish and Charly couldn’t even order a beer in Spanish.

With a feeling of relief, but still numb and trembling, I rose to my feet and left the beach.

At the Del Mar, Frau Else was sitting in a wicker armchair at the end of the hallway that led to the elevator. The lights of the restaurant were all out except for a faint one that illuminated only the shelves of bottles and a section of the bar where a waiter was still laboring away at something I couldn’t make out. When I’d passed the reception desk I’d seen the night watchman with his nose in a sports paper. Not everyone in the hotel was asleep.

I sat down next to Frau Else.

She made some remark about my face. Haggard!

“I’m sure you hardly sleep, and you don’t sleep well. Not a good advertisement for the hotel. I’m worried about your health.”

I nodded. She nodded too. I asked for whom she was waiting. Frau Else shrugged; she smiled; she said: For you. She was lying, of course. I asked her what time it was. Four in the morning.

“You should go back to Germany, Udo,” she said.

I invited her up to my room. She refused. She said: No, I can’t. She gazed into my eyes as she said it. How beautiful she was!

We were quiet for a long time. I would have to liked to say: Don’t worry about me, really, don’t worry. But it was ridiculous, of course. At the end of the hallway, I saw the watchman peer around the corner and then disappear. I concluded that Frau Else’s staff adore her.

I pretended to be tired and stood up. I didn’t want to be there when the person Frau Else was waiting for appeared.

Without rising from the chair, she offered me her hand and we said good night.

I walked to the elevator. Luckily it was stopped at the ground floor and I didn’t have to wait. Once I was inside I went through the farewell ritual again. I said a silent good-bye, only my lips moving. Frau Else held my gaze and my smile until the doors closed with a pneumatic wheeze and I began to rise.

I felt something heavy rolling around in my head.

After taking a hot shower, I got in bed. My hair was wet, and in any case sleep wouldn’t come.

Why, I don’t know, maybe because it was the nearest thing to me, I picked up the Florian Linden book and opened it at random.

“The killer is the owner of the hotel.”

“Are you sure?”

I closed the book.